Page One
by Amynion
Summary: "They told him it was an accident. That was easier to deal with… easier for them all to deal with." After the massacre at Savoy Aramis returns home with amnesia. Each night he forgets and in the morning he remembers nothing. It seemed merciful to keep him in the dark... but the road to hell is paved with good intentions.
1. Chapter 1

**Note**: Hi guys! It's been a while I know... For those of you waiting to see "Prince of a Thousand Enemies" (previewed at the end of Deep Deep Down), I originally envisioned it being five chapters. It's now more than twice that length, so it's just taking a bit longer to get together. It's nearly done though :) In the meantime here's another little angsty fic inspired by "Before I Go to Sleep". My eternal thanks to SirLancelotTheBrave for betaing and being my "angst consult", hee.

**Page One**

**Chapter One**

"Who… who are you?" His voice was tentative and strange… so unlike the man they knew.

A heavy sigh came before the answer.

"My name is Athos. Your name is Aramis. You had an accident... you hit your head and your memory has been a bit off." The answer felt rigid and rehearsed when it came... it had rolled off Athos' tongue too many times these past weeks.

Slowly Aramis let a stray hand wander to his temple. They had taken the bandages off a few days ago. Though Aramis wouldn't remember...

"It aches."

"Well, that's what happens when you fall and hit your head on a stone doorstep." Again, the answer came as if recited as a matter of routine. They told him it was an accident. That was easier to deal with… easier for them all to deal with.

"I'm sorry, I don't remember you." Aramis' eyes were full of apology.

"No, you never do…"

It seemed a miracle when they found him alive at Savoy. Aramis was curled up in the snow against another long dead. He was frozen to the bone and his lips held an unhealthy blue tinge. When they first found him Porthos had broken down in a way Athos thought was not possible. The man seemed so solid… It turned out he was made of pieces just like everybody else. Hope returned when Athos managed to find a faint pulse. They chased away the lingering ravens and took him home.

Everyone was relieved when Aramis gained consciousness, but relief soon turned to fear.

_Where am I? What happened?_ The first questions were expected, and they answered honestly.

_Who are you? What's my name?_ The rest of his questions were worrying…

The physician assured them memory loss was normal with some blows to the head. He was confident it would return. But the next day the questions came again…_ Where am I? What happened? Who are you? What's my name?_

Day after day, the same questions. It went from being worrying to being terrifying. Aramis couldn't seem to hold on to anything from one day to the next. Every time they told him he was injured in a massacre he reacted with the same raw grief. Eventually they started telling Aramis it was an accident. The lie was repeated so often it almost felt like it was the truth.

"Where am I?"

"A sick room in the musketeer garrison. We're musketeers you see."

"Oh…"

Athos watched as Aramis looked about the room as if searching for signs of truth in his words. He always wondered what Aramis expected to see in a sick room… a row of muskets?

The young musketeer licked his dry lips and settled his questioning eyes back on Athos. "Am I supposed to report for duty? What do I do?"

That brought a smile to Athos' face. Even with his memories missing Aramis was eager to get back to action. "Nothing… not until you're well again."

"Oh…" Aramis' face seemed to fall. "So what do I do all day?"

"Rest, read… write a little." Athos waved a hand at a table across the room. It was littered with sheets of parchment and a couple of books. "You seem to have quite a talent for poetry."

"Can you pass me something to read?" Aramis asked tentatively.

With a sigh Athos reached for a book and handed it to Aramis. The young musketeer turned it over in his hands delicately, as if seeing it for the first time.

"Well, unlike you I do have to report for duty. Porthos will bring you something to eat afterwards." Athos got to his feet and reluctantly made for the door. He didn't like leaving Aramis alone, but the young musketeer was well enough now, and he didn't seem to wander from the room.

"Thank you, Athos." Aramis said his name as if he were trying it out for the first time too.

The young musketeer's lost eyes met his with such sincerity before turning back to the book. Athos' hand paused on the door handle... Sorrow tore at his heart on seeing Aramis open the first page. He would always get to chapter five by the end of the day... He started again on page one the next morning.

Turning away, Athos left the sick room and made his way to the courtyard. Every day was getting harder.

**~oOo~**

Slowly he opened his eyes... there was pain… his head ached, and there seemed to be a mist surrounding everything. He reached out for something… a name… a place… it was all gone. A moment of panic flared, and then another presence registered at his side.

There was somebody there. A ruggedly handsome man.

The man watched him intently. There was a flicker of hope in those searching eyes, but it died quickly…

"Who are you?"

"I'm Athos, you're Aramis... and you've had a little accident. You hit your head and your memory is a bit off."

Aramis… that was his name._ Aramis_. It somehow felt familiar and right. But Athos… _Athos_? He reached into the mist, hoping to find something to grab onto... there was nothing but a gaping hole.

Aramis ran his fingers over his head, finding the rough skin of a healing gash. "An accident?"

"You fell and hit your head on a doorstep." The man… _Athos_… replied.

Suddenly Aramis felt bad at not being able to remember this man. He was here, he must mean something...

"I'm sorry, I don't know you."

Athos offered a half smile. "Maybe tomorrow."

"Where am I?"

"A sick room in the musketeer's garrison. You're a musketeer."

Aramis looked about the room. So it wasn't his… Something about that made him glad. The room was plain with a few items of furniture and little else. Aramis began to wonder what his own room was like. Did he have paintings? Keepsakes? Tokens from lovers?

"I'm afraid I must report for duty, Treville doesn't appreciate tardiness." Athos got to his feet.

"Treville?"

"Our Captain. Here, you can pass the time by reading."

A book landed in Aramis' lap. He took it carefully and ran his fingers over the cover. In elaborate lettering it read '_Lives of the Saints_'. While Aramis took in the musty pages Athos kept talking.

"If you wish to write there is ink and paper on the table. Porthos will be along with some food shortly."

"Thank you, Athos." Aramis tried to give the stranger who wasn't a stranger a reassuring smile.

He turned to page one, just as Athos left.

For a while he sat reading quietly, but after a few pages Aramis suddenly felt restless. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. It took a moment for the light headedness to pass… Gingerly the young musketeer stood and went to the table Athos had pointed out. The young musketeer took a seat and flicked through the papers scattered about. An intricate hand had written a poem… was it his writing? He didn't recognise it...

'_You who weep for pleasures fled  
>While dragging on a life of care<br>All your woes will melt in air  
>If to God your tears are shed<br>You who weep!_'

The words felt foreign, they weren't his… why would he have cause to write of weeping? Of pleasures fled? Yet when he took up the quill to put pen to paper the only words that came were sorrowful…_ the world is a sepulchre_…_ friends are shadows_.

His friends were faceless and nameless. The world out there was a black hole. The mist in his mind was frustrating. He wanted answers, not meaningless verses.

Aramis screwed the piece of parchment up and threw it across the small room with a quiet growl. It hit a chest of drawers and skittered into the corner… That drew his attention to a drawer that wasn't properly shut. The young musketeer went to investigate. Maybe he would find something else to do in that drawer…

It was stiff, but the wood gave way with a couple of hefty pulls. Aramis' heart sank at seeing more parchment covered with the same intricate writing… He nearly shut the drawer without a second look, but three words caught his attention amongst the scribble.

'_You are Aramis._'

He read on.

'_Your friends are Athos and Porthos._'

With his interest piqued Aramis took the piece of paper over to the table.

'_You hurt your head. An accident? They say you fell and hit a doorstep._'

He seemed to be writing to himself… There was nothing new so far.

'_Every night you forget, the next morning you won't remember. Write this so you remember. Keep it hidden.'_

And then there was an unfamiliar word at the bottom of the page… It stood out in capital letters.

'_MARSAC?_'

A sudden knock at the door made Aramis jump. He scrambled to hide the piece of parchment at the bottom of the pile on the table.

A large man walked in with a bowl in hand.

"You're Porthos?"

The man smiled and set the bowl down in front of Aramis. "I am, and this is your broth. Enjoy."

Porthos took a seat and looked at him with searching eyes as Athos had. "Nothing's come back then?"

"No… I'm sorry." Aramis picked up his spoon and took a grateful sip of the broth.

"Stop saying that. You've got nothing to be sorry for." Porthos sat back with a dark look.

"Do I always apologise?" As far as Aramis was concerned that was the first time he'd said those words to Porthos.

"Always."

"Then I'm so…" Aramis just managed to stop himself from saying that word. He gave a heavy sigh. "I just feel like you're expecting me to know you, and I don't... I don't want to be a disappointment."

"A disappointment? Aramis, you could _never_ be a disappointment. You and Athos are my closest friends, you mean everything to me. I'm glad to have you back, even if it's only like this…"

"Have me back?"

"You almost died." Porthos leaned forwards on the table and fixed him with a serious eye.

Aramis ran his fingers over the healed up gash again. "It doesn't feel that bad… I didn't realise."

"You were out in the cold for hours before anybody found you."

_A sudden flash of snow… Ravens calling… Splashes of red…_

"Aramis?"

He was staring. He should say something.

"I suppose I'd better watch where I put my feet next time."

The worried look slipped away from Porthos' face and a smile took its place. "Too right. You put me through that again and I'll kill you myself."

He felt shaken… there was something wrong… there was something _else_. It wasn't the news that he nearly died that threw Aramis off. He didn't remember anything, he couldn't feel anything. It might as well have happened to someone else. But there was _something_… it floated just out of reach like a butterfly on the breeze. What was that word?

"Porthos… what is 'marsac'?"

"He's a man, and he's not important." The answer was abrupt.

"How do I know him?"

Porthos shifted about uncomfortably. "You were friends with him in the regiment… not like me and Athos mind."

"Where is he? Can I see him?" If he was important enough to write down he was important enough to see. This Marsac might have more answers.

"He's away on a mission right now."

"Oh… maybe when he gets back then."

"Yeah, I'm sure he'll be looking forwards to seeing you." Porthos' smile had turned sad. "Look, I've got to go. I'm supposed to be on guard duty at the palace in twenty minutes. I'll come and see you afterwards."

Porthos clapped a friendly hand on Aramis' shoulder as he left. But the young musketeer's heart felt suddenly hollow. As soon as Porthos' hefty footsteps faded away Aramis fished out the paper he had hidden. He took up the quill and started writing… Not knowing the date he put a line to indicate day one against the writing already there. Two lines for day two, and then…

'_Marsac is your friend. He's away on a mission. Porthos said he's not important, but that's not right. There's something hidden. You were out in the cold for hours before anybody found you. Snow, ravens and blood. Ask to see Marsac._'

**~oOo~**

It cut Porthos up to see Aramis like this. But as he had said, he was glad to have the man back, even if Aramis wasn't really Aramis. Still, it was painful to sit across from his friend and look into the eyes of a stranger.

Porthos found Athos in the stables, readying his horse to ride out to the palace. His own horse stood by quietly, waiting.

"He's asking about Marsac again." Porthos tried his best to speak casually.

"And what did you say?" Athos matched his tone, he was well practiced at keeping emotion in hand after all.

"That he's not important. Aramis kept asking though, so I told him Marsac was a friend in the regiment. He wanted to see him…"

"Well that's not going to happen." Athos couldn't keep a scowl from his face.

"I told him Marsac was away and he'd visit when he got back."

"Really, Porthos?"

"What? He won't even remember who Marsac is tomorrow. He'll just be a name and I'll tell Aramis the same thing again..." Porthos watched Athos carefully, wondering whether to broach the next subject. "... why don't we tell him a bit more though? It might help his memory come back."

Athos sighed, his hands paused midway through tacking up. "We tried that before remember? It didn't work out…"

"And living this lie is? He's doing better now, he might be able to handle it."

"No Porthos… not yet, give him some more time. If he's remembering Marsac maybe something else will come back. Maybe_ we'll_ come back…"

"And maybe _that_ will come back. What if he remembers when we're not there? What if he has to deal with it alone? It's better for us to break it to him isn't it?"

"Is it better for him to grieve the fallen anew each day? You would put him through that?"

"If it doesn't help we don't have to tell him again… not for a while at least."

"He's holding onto more than I think we realise. He might not remember you or me, but I wouldn't want the sensation of sleeping next to a dead body linger…"

"I just don't like lying to him."

"And you think I do?" Athos hissed. "It's for his own good. He wakes each morning in a foreign land filled with strangers. Until he remembers us - until he knows he's not alone in this - it is merciful to keep him in the dark".

Athos' head bowed as he finished, when he looked up again he seemed tired and worn. He spoke more quietly. "Porthos… would you be there for him tomorrow morning? I can't… I just need a break, it's wearing me down… the same questions over and over… If I see him turn to page one in that damned book again I'll scream."

"Of course I'll be there. You can bring his broth then."

"A fair trade… Come on, we're going to be late."

As they rode out of the courtyard Porthos looked to the small window of the room Aramis was in. For a moment he thought he saw a face pressed up against the glass… but between one blink and the next it was gone.

* * *

><p><strong>Note<strong>: I've got to credit the verse to Dumas, it's from book!Aramis.


	2. Chapter 2

**Note:** Quote is from Oasis' "Gas Panic!".

**Chapter Two**

_My family don't seem so familiar  
>And my enemies all know my name<em>

Porthos sat watching Aramis blink his way from sleep. When he finally came to awareness the young musketeer scrambled upright in a panic.

"It's alright… you're safe." Porthos held his hands up in a placating gesture.

"Who are you?!" Aramis managed between heaving gasps.

"Porthos. I'm your friend."

"Where am I? What am I doing here?!" Though his breath was calming the questions were still frantic.

"You're at the musketeer's garrison, you hurt your head and you can't remember anything. But you're alright, you're going to be just fine."

Aramis settled back down under the weight of Porthos' reassurances. He seemed so terribly lost when he looked up with his next question. "What is my name?"

"Aramis."

"Aramis… I'm Aramis? That's my name…" He said the word as if it were a garment he was trying on.

"It is, and you're a musketeer, like me." Porthos smiled sadly.

No doubt Treville would give Aramis as much time as he needed, but what if this went on much longer? What if his recovery took months… years? What if he never fully recovered? If worse came to worst they would have to make arrangements… find somebody to care for him, though Porthos' heart rebelled at the idea. What would _his_ Aramis think of that? He wouldn't want the indignity of being looked after like a child, nor would he want to be a burden. Porthos shook these thoughts from his head, it was no use thinking of the worst case scenario… Aramis would recover. He was a musketeer, and a musketeer he would remain.

"Do we fight together?"

"We do, you've saved my life many times… You're quite the marksman, and you're good with a needle and thread too." Porthos pulled the top of his shirt down to reveal the thin line of an old scar. "You stitched that up for me after a duel with the red guard. Do you not remember? You were cursing me as much as the guard had…"

Aramis frowned as he stared at his handiwork. "No… There's nothing. I'm sorry."

Porthos nearly flinched at hearing that word. Why did he keep saying sorry? Aramis was the one suffering, he didn't have to apologise for anything. When they found the men responsible for the massacre Porthos was going to make every one of them apologise to Aramis before he ran them through.

"No matter… it will come back. You'll remember. The physician said so." Porthos sounded more confident than he felt.

The physician had said memory loss was normal with some head wounds, he seemed sure Aramis would regain what he had lost… but what if it wasn't the wound? What if Aramis' mind had suffered so much it had chosen to forget in order to survive? Porthos had seen something like it years ago in the Court… There was a man whose family had been slaughtered in a revenge killing. He just shut down. The pain was too much…

Aramis broke into his thoughts with a question and a half smile. "You seem to know me better than I know myself… What am I like? Tell me about our adventures together."

"Well, the ladies love you, and you love the ladies… You're always quick to smile, and you've always got something to say. Your loyalty knows no bounds and…" Porthos trailed off as he thought. How could he put everything Aramis was into words? It couldn't be done.

"And what?" For the first time Aramis seemed to look at him with some light in his eyes.

"... you're my friend. Words are not enough to describe you. I can, however, describe some of our exploits. Would you like to hear about the time I found you hanging from the window of Madame de Chevreuse, or the time we faced ten bandits and you disarmed them with nothing more than your charm?"

"Why not tell both?" Aramis smiled and it warmed Porthos' heart to see.

As it happened they had only time for one story before Porthos had to report for duty. Aramis very nearly followed him, but Porthos assured his friend he was off duty until he could remember which end of a sword you stick in your opponent. The young musketeer actually laughed and said he could remember that much at least.

"Here's a proper story to read." Porthos retrieved a book from the table and handed it to Aramis. A piece of paper fell out as he opened it. Probably a bookmark. "A man named Athos is going to bring you some food. He's your friend too. Though he'll probably be a bit more somber than me. Athos is a man of few words, but don't doubt he cares for you as much as I do."

Aramis frowned, absorbed in whatever he was reading. Porthos wasn't sure the young musketeer had heard a single word he'd said… So putting his hand on the door, Porthos made to leave.

"Porthos… do I have a friend named Marsac too?"

He froze in the doorway and spoke slowly. "You do…"

"Can I see him?" Aramis' voice was hopeful.

"No, he's away on duty. Maybe when he gets back." Porthos shifted uneasily from foot to foot. He didn't want to be talking about Marsac. Apart from stirring up bad memories, that rat had left Aramis in the forest to die alone. It boiled Porthos' blood referring to him as a _friend_. No friend would do that.

"Oh… Does he know me as well as you know me?"

"No, and he never will… I have to go Aramis. I'll see you later." Porthos hid the scowl on his face as he closed the door. He hadn't meant to be so abrupt, but he had been dangerously close to cursing Marsac and telling Aramis exactly what he had done. It was better to leave.

**~oOo~**

He came to with a sense of panic. There was a feathered shadow brushing at his face, blinding white snow, and a seeping, sanguine, red dawn… His eyes opened to the face of a large man, and he shot back with a broken cry. There were shining, sharp things. And he was falling… hitting the floor with a thud, tangled in something… ensnared… sheets, bed sheets. He had simply fallen out of bed.

The man stood up, palms exposed, like he was approaching a wild animal. "Easy… you're safe, you're alright. I'm not going to hurt you."

"Who are you? Where am I? What… what's going on? I can't…" His heart thundered through his chest, and his breath came quickly. He succombed to panic again when he realised he didn't even know his own name. His mind had been chaos mere moments ago, but now there was nothing but an impenetrable mist…

The stranger spoke evenly. "You're Aramis. I'm Porthos. We're musketeers and you're in the garrison. I know it's frightening waking up with nothing in your head, but you need to calm down… You had an accident. You hit your head on a doorstep - that's why you can't remember anything."

Aramis… so that was his name. It felt right, and he took it as his own. Aramis slowed his breathing and frowned at the large man, apparently named Porthos. "A doorstep did this to me?"

"It did, but the cold didn't help. It took a while for you to be found."

_Cold… snow… the calling of ravens… _

"Were there ravens?" He asked with a voice full of confusion.

"Not that I recall…" Porthos extended a hand slowly. "Shall we get you back into bed?"

Cautiously Aramis took the offered hand. He let the man pull him up and settle him back down. The young musketeer's heart still fluttered like a startled bird.

"I'm afraid I can't stop, I'm already late… Just know that you're safe here, if you stay in this room. You're amongst friends, we're looking after you. A man called Athos will bring some food along later." Porthos went to retrieve a book from the table. "Here you go, you like to pass the time with that one. I'll be back to check on you as soon as I can."

Something in Aramis bristled at the thought he needed looking after. He felt physically fine. There was nothing amiss save for the black hole where his memories should have been… The more he tried to grab at them the more elusive they seemed to be. But before Aramis could raise an objection Porthos was gone.

The young musketeer looked down at the book in his lap. '_Lives of the Saints_' it read in elaborate, large writing. He opened it up to find a folded piece of paper. There was handwriting all over it… Carefully Aramis pulled it open.

'_I. You are Aramis._' An intricate hand had written. '_Your friends are Athos and Porthos._'

'_You hurt your head. An accident? They say you fell and hit a doorstep._'

'_Every night you forget, the next morning you won't remember. Write this so you remember. Keep it hidden.'_

'_MARSAC?_'

The intricate hand must have been his. He seemed to be writing to himself… So he lived each day anew? He would remember nothing of this tomorrow?

It went on…

'_II. Marsac is your friend. He's away on a mission. Porthos said he's not important, but that's not right. There's something hidden. You were out in the cold for hours before anybody found you. Snow, ravens and blood. Ask to see Marsac._'

'_III. Porthos doesn't like Marsac… Athos won't talk about him. They're hiding something. Where is Marsac?'_

The notes continued. They became more desperate and suspicious until the last note, hurriedly written and barely legible said: '_Do not trust them. Get out. Find Marsac._'

Whatever had gone on in the past few days had clearly made Aramis wary of his so called friends… Porthos had seemed quite concerned about him, was it all an act? He had only really known the man for a few moments… The Aramis who wrote these notes had known him much longer. As for Athos, he wouldn't know the man if he passed him in the street.

Suddenly he felt on edge again, the panic returned. '_Get out_' it had said… '_Find Marsac_'. There was certainly something amiss. Was he going to sit here and read? Would he simply wait for sleep? Wait for the day to be erased? No… he had to act. He had to do something to claw back against the darkness.

So Aramis tucked the paper back into his book before going to look out of the window. He saw rows of musketeers standing to receive their orders and watched until they dispersed. The young musketeer felt fearful… he didn't know any of those men, he couldn't trust them. Enemies were at every corner… but he had to try. It was in him to try… if he knew one thing about himself, it was that.

Aramis waited until the musketeers in the courtyard rode out to attend their duties. Then he cautiously opened the door. Seeing it was clear outside he swallowed down his fear and stepped out. It was like stepping into an ice cold river. The fresh, crisp air seemed to slam into him. It was not safe out here… he was not safe, but he would go on.

One step in front of the other, that's all it was. And when he reached the archway he would be free. Aramis crept along the side of the building and ducked under the stairs in the courtyard. It was quiet out here. There was just an old man clearing the table... He could easily run past and make it to the street. The old man wouldn't be able to stop him or catch him. So Aramis took a deep breath, and he broke cover.

"Aramis? Where are you going?" The old man shouted as he dashed across the courtyard.

He didn't give chase though. And the archway was just ahead… a few more steps. Aramis' lungs burned with anxiety and effort. The cold air scorched the back of his throat. And then he stopped in his tracks as a musketeer started to walk through the archway from the street. He looked up at Aramis from under his wide brimmed hat and seemed momentarily stunned.

"Get out of my way!" Aramis shouted.

"Aramis… I think you should go back to bed." The man spoke carefully and calmly.

"I'm not going back. Move aside!"

The stranger held his hands up and walked forwards. "Come with me…"

"No, I don't trust you, I don't trust any of you. Where is Marsac?" He took a step back.

"If you come back to your room we can talk about it there." The musketeer was getting closer.

"We can talk about it_ here_! You're hiding something! Don't think that I don't know!"

"What exactly do you think you know?" The stranger hissed. "You don't even know who I am do you?"

"And I don't want to, I just want you to get out of the way." Aramis considered the musketeer fairly warned. He launched himself forwards and lashed out with a fist at the man's face.

The stranger fell back and hit the ground heavily, giving Aramis a chance to run past. But he wasn't as insensate at Aramis thought. He caught the young musketeer's leg and pulled him down. Aramis hit the dirt with a yell, but he recovered quickly and tried to land another blow while the infuriating man tried to restrain him. They rolled around in the dirt, growling and struggling as savage as animals… Suddenly Aramis felt his fingers brush the dagger at the musketeer's belt, he drew it and they sprung apart, scrabbling to gain their feet.

Aramis held the dagger out while the stranger wiped a hand across his bloody lip.

"I don't want to fight you." The man breathed raggedly.

"Good, then get out of my way."

"I can't let you go."

"Why not?"

"Because you don't know anything! You'll end up dead out there!"

"Then tell me everything! Stop lying! Stop hiding things from me! Where is Marsac? Let me see Marsac!" Aramis moved forwards with the dagger raised, his blood was now boiling.

This time the stranger took a step back, but he slowly drew his sword. "You can't see him, he's away…"

"Tell me where he is!" Aramis shouted.

"I can't tell you, because I don't know." He sounded so calm, which only served to anger Aramis further.

"I don't believe you."

"If you don't believe that, believe this - I am the best swordsman in the regiment. Do you really think you can get past me with a dagger?"

"I can try!" Aramis rushed forwards intending to use the dagger to knock his opponent's sword aside and run past.

But it seemed as if the musketeer knew his every move. Aramis went to lash out with his dagger, only to find the blade was no longer there. The musketeer circled the point of his sword around and slashed at Aramis' forearm. Pain exploded as it sliced open his skin. The dagger instantly dropped from the young musketeer's fingers, but he was not done. Adrenaline coursed through Aramis' veins and he pushed the man back with a roar, heedless to his own running blood.

The musketeer recovered quickly, he threw his blade to one side and and wrestled Aramis to the ground. His hold was firm and Aramis, feeling suddenly weak, found himself face down in the dirt, his arms wrenched behind his back. The brief surge of adrenaline left... pain and exhaustion took its place. Still, Aramis did his best to struggle, but the man held him in an iron grip. Then approaching footsteps drew his eyes. The old man appeared with Porthos, who started running when he saw them.

"Athos! What the hell happened?"

So this man was Athos… his notes had spoken of an Athos… It seemed Aramis' own "friend" had attacked him…

"He came at me. I had to..." For a moment Athos' calm facade slipped, but after a couple of steady breaths it was back in place. "... we'll talk later. Help me get him up. Serge, will you fetch a sewing kit?"

Aramis found himself manhandled to his feet and half carried back to that damned room. They lay him down on the bed and Porthos started to pull his bloodied shirt off. Aramis pushed his hands away, he didn't want to be touched by them.

"Restrain him." Came Athos' hard voice.

Porthos held him down while Athos ripped his shirt open and set to work on the gaping wound at his forearm.

Aramis winced and hissed, but he managed to speak through gritted teeth. "Why won't you tell me where Marsac is? Why are you keeping me here?"

Athos ignored him and continued stitching with an intense focus.

"Have you done this to me? Is it some kind of poison that affects my mind? What do you want with me?"

Silence.

"Why won't you answer?!" Aramis shouted and Porthos' grip tightened.

"Athos…" Porthos' voice was little more than a whisper.

Athos finished stitching the wound closed and went to pack away the needle and thread. He turned to face Aramis and let out a sigh before speaking.

"I know you won't believe me, but this is for your own good."

Suddenly Porthos' hold became more comforting than restraining.

"How is this helping?" Aramis asked in disbelief.

A look passed between Athos and Porthos. They seemed to communicate without words.

"I'll tell you tomorrow." Athos said abruptly and made his way to the door. "Come Porthos, Aramis needs to rest."

"I need answers, not rest!"

Porthos released his hold and moved to the door.

"You'll get them tomorrow, I promise." Athos said quietly before taking his leave.

And then came the ominous sound of the door locking.

A spark of anger lit Aramis' heart, and he hurled the nearest thing he could lay his hands on at the door - a book. It hit heavily and the hidden bits of paper came flying out. They scattered around the room like birds coming to roost. Aramis resigned himself to collecting them… He had much to write about.

**~oOo~**

"You're locking him in?!"

At least Porthos had waited until they were out of earshot before exploding.

"I can't risk him wandering. For goodness sake Porthos... If I hadn't been there he would have been out on the streets." Athos drew a cloth from his pocket and tried wiping Aramis' blood off his hands. It made him feel slightly ill to look at them, slick with his friend's blood as they were… Blood spilt by his own blade no less.

"So we _imprison_ him then…" The word was said with more than a little distaste.

"He's not a prisoner, he's just…" Athos tailed off as he struggled to find another term for it. You locked up criminals and madmen. Aramis was neither. Some would accuse him of being the latter, and Athos had heard a few whispers in the garrison to that effect, but what he suffered was temporary. It wasn't madness. The shouting and fighting might have given that impression, but every morning he woke as a stranger in a strange land - any rational man would react with fear or anger. "... it's for his own safety. He went after Marsac, he thinks we're hiding something."

"Which we are." Porthos noted with a pointed look. At least the anger had slipped from his voice. "He won't like it, he'll feel trapped…"

"It's only until tomorrow. It will all be forgotten by then." Athos didn't like using Aramis' condition in this way, but it was undeniably convenient. "He'll probably be content to sit and read as usual."

"And what if he isn't? What if he gets up and goes chasing after Marsac again?"

"Then we'll lock the door, or one of us will have to stop with him… I'll have a word with Treville, but we'll just have to see how he is in the morning. His mind could be a blank slate by then. No Marsac… no me, no you." Athos scrubbed a tired hand over his face, wincing as he brushed over a few tender spots. "How long is this going to go on for? Surely something should have come back by now…"

"Something other than Marsac you mean? Of all the people for his mind to fixate on it had to be that blasted rat…" Athos didn't miss the way Porthos' hands turned to fists at his side.

"Well, I suppose we have to be thankful he's remembering… I only wish it were us instead of Marsac." Athos gave a sigh as they came to a stop, ready to part ways. "He stared at me with such hatred, Porthos... I have only been looked on like that by the worst of my enemies."

Porthos put a friendly hand to Athos' shoulder. "I know, I want him back too… It feels like we left the real Aramis behind in Savoy."

"He'll find his way back to us. I just hope it's sooner rather than later."

Porthos eyed Athos carefully for a moment before asking his next question. "I don't suppose you intend on keeping your promise?"

"To tell him everything? In truth, I don't know… I suppose it will depend how he is tomorrow. If all is forgotten it will be tempting to let sleeping dogs lie, but maybe you're right. This can't go on."

"Sleeping dogs have to wake at some point. I'll be there tomorrow; I'll let you know how he is…" Porthos' face turned to a look of concern. "Does he always wake in such a panic?"

"What do you mean?" Athos frowned.

"He wakes as if he's been chased from sleep by the hounds of hell. It's been getting worse these past few days... he woke this morning and backed away from me so violently he fell out of bed."

"No… He wasn't like that before. There was confusion, but no terror." Athos went quiet as he thought… What could be causing such fear? Was Savoy coming back to Aramis in his sleep? Is this where the obsession with Marsac came from? "Let me be there for him tomorrow. I want to see for myself."


	3. Chapter 3

**Note**: Quote is from System of a Down's "Soldier Side".

**Chapter Three**

_He's come so far to find the truth  
>He's never going home<em>

Athos unlocked the door with a heavy heart. He didn't know what he was going to find behind it. Would he face the same soul crushing questions? _Where am I? What happened? Who are you? What's my name? _Or would Aramis be intent on finding Marsac once again? Was he going to wake in a panic chased by ghosts of men he couldn't remember?

Athos swung the heavy door open and stood puzzled a moment...

The bed was empty.

"Aramis?"

The remains of a chair were strewn about the room… and then the door slammed shut behind him. The sound seemed to reverberate through his bones. Athos whirled around to find Aramis, hollow eyed, and wielding a chair leg.

He raised it.

"Aramis, no!"

It all happened so quickly.

There was pain, and then darkness.

**~oOo~**

This time there was no hesitation as Aramis fled from his room. He hit the frosted air and took it in, making it part of himself. Ice ran through his veins. The young musketeer felt strangely detached from his body and the world. Perhaps it came from not sleeping… Sleep seemed to rob him of his memories, and so Aramis had been determined to stay awake. He passed the night away reading. Finally his fingers had touched the final page of his book, and then he was left with his own thoughts.

That was the moment an idea came to him… He could break the chair to pieces and use a leg for a weapon. The moment his door was unlocked he would strike. And then he would be free to find the truth... and Marsac.

Aramis' arm stung and his body cried out for rest, but he refused to give in. The young musketeer settled down behind the door, clutching his makeshift weapon, simply waiting... Eventually morning came, and for the first time in a long time Aramis met it with his memories from the previous day in tact. Exhaustion wracked his body... the young musketeer felt his mind drifting… circling around names and faces… _Marsac_… _Athos_… _Porthos_… and then everything snapped into place at the sound of a key scraping into a lock.

When the door opened Aramis slammed it shut and struck. Athos hardly had a chance to open his mouth, let alone make a move.

And so he made his escape.

It was still early, the sun's weak light barely touched the world, and shadows roamed the corners of the garrison. Aramis crept his way around the building, heading for the courtyard… but he baulked at finding a guard posted outside the archway. Clearly they didn't intend on him getting out… but surely there was another way to reach the streets of Paris? Aramis took to the shadows once again and tried another path. The young musketeer cursed under his breath. He supposed he knew these corridors and pathways like the back of his hand, but now the garrison was a maze. Nothing looked familar. Aramis grew more frantic and increased his pace. He felt like he was running from the darkness into the darkness. No matter how hard he tried get away, it kept pulling him back in... Maybe he would find a home amongst the shadows.

And then Aramis burst out into an open grassed area. A great tree took his attention at first, it stood looming over the garden like a guardian… The scent of fresh, frosted grass met his senses, and it twisted into snow touched grass… no… blood touched snow. A copper tang drifted lazily on the air. And then Aramis came to realise… this was no garden. It was a graveyard. The tree stood as a sentinel to the dead. Row after row of metal crosses stood before him. Aramis stepped closer and the scent of freshly turned earth hit the back of his throat. He bent over and retched.

The young musketeer started counting the raised mounds… _one_… _two_…_ three_…

He saw their faces… _Henri_… _Andre_… _Phillipe_…

They had been laughing around the campfire.

_Four_… _five_… _six_…

_Alexander_… _Arnaud_… _Sacha_...

Dead around the campfire.

Their eyes hollow and unseeing. Their lips parted, tainted with blood.

It stained the snow all around him. Aramis scrambled on his hands and knees, smudging the streams of red, desperately trying to find a sign of life… _Please God… please, if you have any mercy… let one live. Just one_… None were spared. A crack seemed to run through his faith. He was alone, the only one still drawing breath…

_Seven… eight… nine…_ The ones who had been left on watch.

_Jean… Marcel… Gerard…_ Their throats were left gaping.

He was counting bodies like sheep. Tiredness pulled at his limbs, sorrow pulled at his heart. Was it his time to rest yet?

Not yet. He had to keep counting.

… _eighteen… nineteen… twenty… Leon… Raoul… Claude..._

They were all here. Every face he had seen turn pale and grey in the endless hours waiting for rescue. He had nothing to do but watch them. Watch and chase away the ravens when they came. Eventually the cold and the pain had frozen his limbs and Aramis could do nothing but lie curled in the snow. Shaking, shivering... watching as the ravens dug their vicious little beaks in. His eyes closed, and he began to doubt that rescue would come. Aramis would sleep and join his brothers. It was inevitable. The ravens were just waiting... they watched him as keenly as he had watched them.

There was a gap next to the twentieth grave. A space of undisturbed grass. It was waiting for him. He wanted to lie down and never get up again… At last, his chance to rest.

**~oOo~**

Porthos had slipped back into his place in the routine, going along to deliver Aramis' broth. He wasn't looking forwards to facing his friend. Either he would find the blank face of a stranger or the bitter anger and distrust reserved for enemies… either way, it wasn't his brother. It wasn't the Aramis he knew. He just wanted his _brother_ back…

He was more than a little alarmed to find the door slightly ajar.

And behind it lay the prone form of Athos.

Porthos let out a string of curses and slung his bowl on the table. He dropped to his knees and tried to rouse Athos, first shaking him gently, and then giving the musketeer's face a harder slap. He was rewarded with Athos' groggy, unfocused eyes opening. They seemed to sharpen as he woke a little more and realisation hit him.

"Easy now… what the hell happened?" Porthos helped Athos sit up.

"Ara...ow." Athos winced and put a hand to his head before trying again. "Aramis hit me with a chair leg."

"That explains the mess… Do you need a physician?" Porthos pointed at Athos' sore head.

"No… no, I'll be alright. Come on, we have to find him." Athos swayed a moment when Porthos pulled him to his feet… and then his eyes seemed to settle on the table. "What's that?"

Porthos followed his gaze. There was paper strewn across the table, written in Aramis' hand. "Just some of Aramis' poetry. Let's get after him, God knows how far he's got…"

"No, wait… our names are on it."

Porthos snatched up one of the pages and began to read. "Oh no…"

They went through everything Aramis had written. So that was where the paranoia had come from. Helped along by their own secrecy no doubt, but Aramis was not as clueless as they had assumed. And look where it had led them.

Porthos screwed up the page he held and threw it at the table with a savage curse. "Let's go."

Their first port of call was the courtyard, but the musketeer they posted at the archway swore he had seen nothing of Aramis… They went searching through the garrison, checking every room they came across. The morning was wearing on and more musketeers gathered. As they readied for their duties Athos and Porthos asked if they had seen Aramis. Muttered apologies and shaken heads were the only answers given.

Finally the two musketeers stepped out into the graveyard. It would make for quite a pleasant garden if it were not for the rows of crosses. Porthos shivered suddenly. He didn't like spending time here. As much respect as he held for his fallen brothers, it was a stark reminder of their own mortality. The Inseparables would be separated one day… Six feet of earth would stand between them.

Porthos began to walk the rows of graves. It was so quiet, he hardly dared breathe in case it disturbed the peace. And then he caught the flash of white against the patchwork of grass and turned dirt.

It was Aramis' shirt.

"Athos, he's here!"

Porthos dashed over to find Aramis curled up next to the grave of the last man they buried. His eyes were tight shut and he lay apart from it, near enough the exact number of inches that separated each grave... as if he were sleeping atop his own.

"Aramis?" Porthos asked tentatively.

With no answer he stepped forwards cautiously and knelt by Aramis' side. He reached out a hand to the young musketeer's shoulder, noting the slight tremble beneath his fingers. Porthos looked up with a worried expression as Athos approached.

Porthos tried again. "Aramis? Will you say something? Do you know where you are?"

"Is this hell?" Aramis' voice was quiet and rough. His eyes were still closed, as if he dare not open them. "I only imagined I would suffer torment like this in hell..."

"No, you're not in hell… Look at me. Open your eyes and look at me, Aramis." Porthos was gentle but insistent.

"I can't." A sudden shudder passed through his frame.

"Why not?"

"The ravens will take them." Aramis sounded so matter of fact, it was chilling.

Porthos tightened his grip. "There aren't any ravens here Aramis…"

"Why do you keep saying my name like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like I'm lost…"

Porthos let out a heavy breath before answering. "You have been lost... but we found you. You're safe, open your eyes and look at me."

Aramis slowly turned his head to face Porthos. His eyes cracked open, just a little at first, and then they blinked and settled on Porthos' face. There was recognition there. Despite the circumstances he couldn't help but smile. _Aramis knew him_. Porthos could see it in his eyes.

"There you are…" Porthos felt his own eyes well as he helped Aramis sit up.

Athos came to kneel by them and took one of Aramis' cold hands in his own. "You remember then?"

And the broken look on Aramis' face robbed Porthos of that small sense of relief he felt...

"I remember… I wish I didn't, I wish I…" Aramis twisted to look back at the ground he had been lying on - the grave he had chosen for himself. Porthos feared the next words from his mouth would be '_I wish I had died with them_'. He gently put a hand to Aramis' cheek and brought him back around.

"Don't."

Aramis looked at him as if he knew exactly why Porthos had said that word. His dark eyes reflected a shattered soul, so lost and forlorn… And now Porthos wished he could take those memories away. He wished he could say something or do something to make this all better. Hell, he wished he could go back in time to stop Aramis and the others going off on that damned mission. But he couldn't. Saying something to make this better was just as impossible as travelling back through time… It couldn't be done. It couldn't be fixed so easily. _Aramis_ couldn't be fixed so easily.

"Don't you_ ever_ think you would be better off…" Porthos' words seemed to die in his throat. He looked away and felt Aramis' hand grip tightly at his arm.

"I'm glad you're back." Athos stepped in when Porthos faltered.

Aramis managed a sad smile.

And then he whispered those two words that Porthos hated hearing… "I'm sorry."

"What for?" Athos' brow furrowed.

"For hurting you…"

"- it is forgotten-"

"... for putting more faith in Marsac than you."

"You were confused Aramis, you needn't blame yourself. I should be the one apologising… Perhaps we were wrong to keep things hidden from you. Nothing good came of it. We just wanted to spare you the grief."

Aramis' eyes slipped to the middle distance, as if he were contemplating the depths of that grief. It made Porthos wonder if he would rather live in ignorance again. But it had to be dealt with. Sooner or later Aramis would have to work his way through this loss. Doubtless it would leave him scarred, but this gaping wound wouldn't even begin to heal if they ignored it. All Porthos and Athos could do was be there for him while he suffered.

"He… left me." Aramis spoke slowly, his eyes were still glazed over, staring at nothing. "He left me with them all…"

Porthos gripped his shoulder tightly. "Forget him. He's nothing… he's worth less than nothing."

Aramis went on as if he hadn't heard a word. "Why? I don't understand… Why would he save me only to leave me? I would have died there… I_ should_ have died there."

Once again he tried to twist and look down at his own grave, but Porthos held the young musketeer fast. Was he expecting to see a cross bearing his own name? The thought seemed to flood Porthos' veins with ice.

Porthos couldn't help but growl and shake Aramis a little. "You were not supposed to die anywhere."

"Who can say what he was thinking?" Trust Athos to try and provide a rational answer to Marsac's actions. "Living through such a trauma can affect a man's mind… as you well know."

Aramis' eyes flicked to Athos then, his face seemed to hold a note of fear… as if he would back away were Porthos' arms not tight around him.

"I can't… I can't…" Aramis started to struggle in Porthos' arms. "Why did he save me? I would rather have been cut down than left to suffer…"

"Hey… hey." Porthos whispered gently at his ear. "Easy… You were _not _meant to die there. Do not wish for death... we're here for you."

Aramis went limp then, his voice turned hollow. "You don't know what it's like Porthos. To be trapped with one or two dead friends would have been enough… but _twenty_. I can't live with this... I can't..."

"We'll help you." Porthos' voice was firm as Aramis' eyes glazed over with tears.

"Twenty dead men, Porthos… I see them when I close my eyes. The scent of their blood drifts on the air. I can still hear their screams... I can't be helped. There is no helping _this_." His voice turned savage towards the end. The young musketeer trembled in Porthos' arms. A stray tear leaked from the corner of his eye.

Athos moved in a little closer and gripped Aramis' hand tightly. "We'll find a way. You're our brother, and we will not leave you to suffer alone. Not like _him_…"

"I can't see a way through the darkness…" Aramis closed his eyes and let his breath out in a sigh.

"We're with you, every step of the way. We'll find a way out together..." Athos wasn't usually given over to displays of emotion, but he infused his voice with everything he had. "All of this will fade, I know you can't see it now, but time will make these wounds into scars. You're going to walk through the darkness and emerge into light, and you are one of the lucky ones… There are twenty men who will never see another sunrise. There are twenty families grieving the faces they will never see again. We are _lucky_. You live, and we have you."

A faint smile flitted across Aramis' pale face. His voice was tired... "Can we rest now?"

Porthos couldn't find the will to smile under the circumstances. "Let's get you back to bed."

He helped haul Aramis to his feet and steadied him with an arm around the waist. The young musketeer shook his head vehemently. "Not there… I don't want to go back there."

"Then we'll take you home." Athos moved to his other side and took Aramis' arm. He seemed spooked at the prospect of going home. "Don't worry, we'll stay with you."

At that Aramis seemed to relax. Perhaps it was the thought of being alone that had him worried.

The young musketeer walked the streets with them, seeming amazed at all of the bustling activity. He let Athos and Porthos lead him onward, clearly there were still gaps in his memory. Eventually they came to his door and Aramis paused on the threshold.

"This is my house…" His voice was faint, it held the tone of a question.

"It is." Athos looked back and tried for a smile. "Come inside, we'll get you settled."

Aramis was tentative as he went inside. He looked around as if he had never been there before… and then he started examining everything. Every little item he came across he picked up and explored. He ran his fingers over the bristles of a hairbrush, and raised a handkerchief to his nose, taking in its scent.

"I know this… This isn't mine." Aramis' brow creased, seemingly trying to dredge something up from his memory. "This belongs to Madame… Madame…"

"Come on, don't overtax yourself. Didn't you want to rest?" Porthos pointed to the bed. "I'll build up a fire, get some warmth in here."

Athos went to guide Aramis to his bed while Porthos turned his attention to the hearth.

Before long there was a nice fire crackling away and Aramis was fast asleep. Athos and Porthos had pulled chairs across the room to be closer to the bed. They spoke softly for a while before lapsing into a companionable silence, their eyes flicking between the flames and their friend.

After a while Porthos broke the silence. There was something that needed doing. "I'd better go and fetch his things from the garrison. I won't be long."

Athos simply gave a nod and Porthos got to his feet. There was something else he wanted to get too...


	4. Chapter 4

**Epilogue**

Athos watched his friend sleep with some trepidation. He was dreading the moment Aramis woke up… He feared hearing those same questions again. After everything they had been through it would break him. Athos felt they had taken the first step towards recovery, and if it had all been for naught…

Athos looked up suddenly as Porthos came in. He opened the door carefully, not wanting to wake Aramis, and went to set down some items on the table. Books, clothes, and all the other things they had taken to the sick room for their friend. And then Porthos went to stand before the fire with a handful of parchment.

"What's that?" Athos could guess.

"His notes." Porthos' voice was abrupt but gentle. His eyes skated over the first page… Athos recalled the words - '_You are Aramis_'... and then the pages were tossed into the hearth without a second look.

They both watched the paper curl and blacken as it was eaten by the flames. Athos felt a certain amount of satisfaction at seeing Marsac's name turn to ash. After a few moments there was nothing left.

Porthos swallowed heavily. "Do you think he'll remember…"

"We can only hope." Athos answered quietly.

Porthos joined Athos by the bed. It was a stark reminder of the time directly after Savoy, when Aramis lay with his head bandaged and his face nearly as pale as the sheets that covered him. They had waited and watched then, fearing he would never wake up. It was a joyous moment when Aramis opened his eyes… and then the questions came. Their joy quickly turned bitter in the days that followed. Aramis had never really woken up… not _their_ Aramis at least. Now here they were again, watching and waiting for Aramis to wake up.

"If he looks at me like a stranger again…" Porthos tailed off.

"I know."

"I couldn't bear to get him back only to lose him."

At that Athos made no answer. He always kept his pain inside, close to his heart, where it could torment him in the quiet moments at night. He didn't need to talk it through, he would rather silence it with a bottle. But if Porthos wanted to talk, he would listen.

"He wanted to die, Athos… He lay on the grass like he'd found his own grave. I want him back so badly, but am I being selfish? Would he be better off not knowing?"

That question drew Athos from his silence. "Would you have him forget everything every day? We have already suffered through that, and it is no way to live… We have to show him that he can live again. We have to get him to see that he has a life worth living."

It was hard… putting one foot in front of the other when all you wanted to do was collapse and give in. Athos knew this… He also knew what kept you going was reaching for something. You had to stumble on towards something worth reaching for. Athos just hoped they would be enough.

"Aramis would fight... _Our _Aramis would fight."

"That _was_ our Aramis out in the graveyard. There are some things even the strongest of men cannot fight... But we'll give him a reason to try."

Porthos scrubbed a tired hand over his face. "That's if he remembers any of this..."

At that Athos went quiet again.

They sat and watched in silence. Minutes swept by into hours. And then Aramis began to twitch slightly.

The two musketeers sat forwards in their chairs, hardly daring to breathe.

Slowly Aramis' eyes opened. He blinked heavily. Once he had taken in his surroundings his eyes settled on Athos, and then Porthos, for a long moment. They searched his gaze for any sign of recognition. It was like dredging through mud. Athos felt those familiar words ready to roll off his tongue…

'_My name is Athos. Your name is Aramis. You had an accident…_'

Aramis' brow furrowed. His words came slowly.

"Athos… Porthos…"

Such relief blossomed in Athos' heart at hearing their names. Porthos beamed beside him, near ecstatic at Aramis remembering them.

"You remember?" Athos asked, a little excitement crept into his own voice.

"I remember you… I remember them, and I remember _him_." Aramis sighed and looked to the ceiling. "I don't recall my neighbour, nor the way to get to the garrison. The last woman to share my bed has gone, save for the scent of a handkerchief… and for some reason the taste of an apple eludes me."

His manner was quite subdued, and understandably so, but there was something of the old Aramis beneath it all.

"That's good. You have to start somewhere, there are bound to be holes and things missing, but it will come back… _We've _come back."

"My dear Athos, I don't know how I managed to forget you in the first place." Aramis sounded so tired, but he managed a wan smile. "Nor you Porthos."

There was still a wide grin plastered over Porthos' face. "Don't worry, I'll get you an apple. I've got you something else too."

Porthos delved a hand into his pocket and pulled out a small book. Aramis took it delicately and flicked through the pages. There was no title and they were all blank.

"A diary. It'll help your memory to write things down, just… not like before, okay? We're starting again."

"Thank you…" Aramis looked at Porthos with something more than appreciation for the book.

When he looked to Athos he could near enough feel the young musketeer's gaze running over the bruises his own hand had inflicted. Guilt seemed to come off him in waves.

"I'm-"

"Don't you dare say you're sorry." Porthos cut in.

Athos leaned forwards to squeeze the young musketeer's arm. "It's all forgotten Aramis… all of it. Let's just start again at page one."

Aramis' fingers grazed the book. A small smile pulled at his lips. "I think I can do that."

* * *

><p><strong>Note<strong>: Thanks to my reviewers, followers and favouriters, you're all awesome :D

And I've got lots more deliciously angsty stories in the works... life is crazy busy right now, but I'll do what I can :)


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